Monday, September 21, 2009

The Use Of Cheese In An Erotic Context

There has been some concern expressed during village council meetings about the use of cheese during the midweek evening orgies in the village hall. There has been some talk of the illicit use of Wensleydale during the later part of the evening, and even rumours that there were telltale Double Gloucester stains on some of the perversion benches at the back of the hall. Now, we have not had an outbreak of cheese fetishism for several seasons, in the village now and there is genuine fear that we may be facing another outbreak.

Of course, in the usual run of events there is nothing wrong with the use of cheese in an erotic context. I have myself, by way of example, spend many an evening with a fully-consensual Stilton, or even – in my younger more radical student days – a Red Leicester.

However, cheese can be exert a powerful effect on the human mind, and using it during the heady excitement of a full-on village orgy is to court disaster. After all, we all remember the great cheese riots of the 1920s and what happened outside the American Embassy in 1968 when some headstrong young teenagers over-indulged in fully-matured cheddar, not of course forgetting the effect of that infamous over-ripe Edam on the festival goers at Woodstock.

Therefore, it is only prudent to make sure that every village hall orgy-goer is fully conversant with the What to Do In Case Of Cheese safety notices pinned just above the dildo rail at the rear of the orgy room.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Fully-Consensual Philately

The use of the Pineapple Inquiry should quite obviously be restricted for those for whom normal human intercourse has become problematical, such as politicians, journalists and – of course – estate agents. This is especially true if, for some reason, the aforesaid have not even managed to come up to the low standards of probity, straightforwardness and honesty normally expected of them*.


There are times too when you may have to make use of a small woodland creature in a way not usually found in nature. I am here talking of those times, and I feel I can speak frankly here as we are all adults, each with an adult’s ability to giggle in an uncontrollably childish way at the rude and naughty, when one may feel an almost overwhelming need to share one’s personal stamp collection with a dormouse.

Of course, I hasten to add, I have never felt the need personally to engage in fully-consensual philately with a small woodland mammal, but – and let’s be honest here - many of you (both) gathered here have.

Sharing one’s hobbies with small mammals has a long, if rather ignoble, history in this land of ours. After all, even the Venerable Bede himself liked to press wild flowers whilst in the company of a special fallow deer he called Stephen.


*i.e. none at all.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

The History Of Little Frigging – Part One

The history of Little Frigging is a fascinating study, especially the fully-illustrated editions of The History Of Little Frigging (with full-colour plates for the connoisseur), that are available by mail order in plain brown wrapping.


As you my well know, Little Frigging was mentioned in the Domesday book as ‘a smalle hamlet where the denizens have an unnaturale intereste in their woodcocks and other game birdes’. Although, there is sketchy evidence that the village rests upon a site first used by the Romans as an employment agency which recruited Vestal Virgins, which seemed to have fallen into almost immediate disuse not long after it opened. Historians have speculated that this may have something to do with the area’s long disdain for anything resembling virginity and some rather explicit religions practices that predate even the Romans in the use of the watermelon and various young maidens.

It was not until the famous incident where the maidens of the village frightened off the Vikings in the years before William the Bastard’s Norman invasion, that the village became known as Little Frigging, up until then is was known by its local name, Mud. It was said that it came by the name of Little Frigging due to the activities of one of its Housecarls became besotted with a reeve’s daughter and her flock of tame moorhens. Many historians have decided it was this very event was the precursor to the sport we know today as All-Nude Chicken-Intriguing.


[Part Two will follow if and when I can be arsed]

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

The Master Of Advanced Sexual Perversions Exam

There are times when you have to consider seriously the best way of applying the warm custard to the postmistress without necessarily altering your compass bearing when you want to make sure that she is in the optimum position for instigating an underarm sex-spatula self-basting manoeuvre without unnecessarily startling any of the chickens that may be in the vicinity. Then, of course, there is the not inconsiderable danger that the alarm clock will go off, thus alerting the night watchman, before you re ready to turn the page in the instruction manual and set free the homing pigeons in readiness for the barbecue later that evening.

Now, by this time, you will be rightly concerned about the shepherd’s pie, and whether he will want it back in the near future. This is only natural and should be disregarded, as long as you have the necessary postage stamps and enough suitable wrapping paper to post it back to him when the time arrives.

Once you have done al of the above, then it will be time to move on to question 2 on your Master Of Advanced Sexual Perversions exam paper, after – of course – releasing the invigilator from the harness and wiping any excess moisture from the penguin.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Nearly The Last Post

But the penumbra of disappointment o’er shadows us all, even our very pogo sticks - once so resplendent - now grow cold and despondent. Our fetish gear lies discarded and forgotten heaped untidily in the bottom drawer of all our possibilities, while the sex badgers and perversion weasels, their coatings of exotic unguents and lubricants long dried and flaking, grow fat, torpid and unloved in the sex arenas of neglect.

Our sex spatulas rust, corrode or rot, as they lie unused and forgotten in our sex utensil drawers. The various traffic wardens, quantity surveyors and local rugby teams grow tied of waiting, get dressed again and go about their business with lowered eyes and the air of sadness all around them that comes from unfulfilled dreams.

And what of you, my love, who – once upon a time – would think nothing of walking naked, except for stockings, suspenders (with integral watermelon harness and a brace of sex spatulas, into the Little Frigging fire station to challenge all three shifts to see who would tire first; you, or them.


Then, 24 hours later, it would – inevitably – you who would be the one to walk out with your watermelon-stained laddered stockings, Strom Thighhammer’s drooping fireman helmet and the broad grin of victory on your face, whilst the last embers of a burning building smouldered forgotten on the horizon.

Ah, such times… such times.

All things, though, must come to an end, even if only temporarily – otherwise we would not be able to fit them – however untidily – in our sex utensil drawers.

So, this is it. There will be no more of this for a time (or two).

Thank you and Good-bye for now.


Norbert and Maureen Trouser-Quandary.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Summer Shorts Fetishism

The use of sandals, socks and shorts has been a staple of the English perversion scene now for many a summer. Many people when they first espy someone kitted out in this fetish gear wrongly assume that it must be some kind of tourist. However, we who live in picturesque areas of the countryside and in photogenic small villages are adept at spotting tourists (and separating them from their money) and take the word of an expert. These are not tourists.


The summer shorts fetish is a very unusual deviation in that the participant usually gets his, or even her*, satisfaction from the expressions of horror emitted by those who are forced by daily circumstance to confront the terror of the shorts, often in a full-frontal encounter.

Of course, still within living memory (if Old Feebletrousers is actually living) the shorts fetishist had his activities confined to the sports field, or – if not considered too much a danger to the public – the scout hut.

However, recent moral laxity has allowed the shorts wearer out into public, with seemingly little or no shame or stigma attached to the practice any longer. To many of us, this moral turpitude is a very damaging development. Allowing people to wear shorts in the relative privacy of their own home is one, thing. A case could even be made for allowing them to be utilised in the more relaxed confines of a village hall orgy, or – even at a stretch – on the perversion pitch itself. However, some things are a step too far.

It is time someone thought of the dangers of allowing these sorts of people to parade their deviations out on the public thoroughfare. For we should be aware of the concomitant dangers of not only what damage it could do to the fragile psyches of our children, but the very real danger that if it is allowed to continue unchecked any longer it could also frighten the horses.


*For in the modern era, much to the consternation of more hidebound** traditionalists, some women have in recent decade taken up the shorts fetish with alacrity

**In such case it doesn’t mater what sort of hide one likes to bind oneself in. For the purposes of this article, we will regard all hide fetishists as being roughly the same. However, should this article have been about hide fetishists then we would of course, make special reference to those who achieve sexual satisfaction from wearing the hides of freshwater social workers.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Over-Fondling of Your Flankers

Of course, if the opposition team have all the devices, and your side is left holding the bewildered moorhen deep within their own scrum line, then it is time to think about making a substitution. Of course, by this stage of the orgy your forwards should each have scored several times already, or - at least – confused the chicken enough times for the state of their ardour to be called into question.


Anyway, if your forwards are showing signs of a flagging ardour, then it is probably best to think of trying to defend in depth. Obviously, by now you should be making sure that both your wing-front centre hatchbacks have each got a firm grasp on their pogo sticks in case the opposition are tempted into introducing their attacking unicycles to over-fondle your flankers when the referee is blown by the umpire to change ends.

Once the teams are in their positions ready to start the post half-time fondle, your midfield centre exhibitionist should have enough of the melon left to tempt the opposing forwards into committing themselves to a fully-consensual advance towards what now seem to be a quite-perturbed chicken. This should enable your wing forward to hail a taxi to take her right down towards the oppositions box where she can double cross the left back, enabling your centre fondler to enter the opposition’s box easily, with enough penetration to score.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Spasmodic Weasel Indifference Day Eve

The day before Spasmodic Weasel Indifference Day Eve is always a hectic time in Little Frigging, as we all have to make sure our Spasmodic Weasel Indifference Day costumes are back from the cleaners and our sex spatulas have been fully recalibrated back to Greenwich Mean Time in readiness for the darker evenings that Spasmodic Weasel Indifference Day celebrates.


Those of you with some knowledge of the state of religion in this country before the Christians came and buggered about with it all, will, of course, know that Spasmodic Weasel Indifference Day dates back to beyond even the pagan times. It has been found to date right back into the mists of history, back to the time when early man first realised that someone or something must be responsible for creation and set about finding out precisely who was to blame for it.

Back in those days, of course, gods were not to be venerated, worshiped, feared or even loved. They were there to take the blame when something – as it often did – did not go well. When the hunt failed, when the crops did not grow, when the illnesses spread, when there was nothing any good on the telly, when Windows 1.0 kept rebooting for no apparent reason, then the gods were blamed and held responsible. Most of all, though, during the elaborate and vital fertility rites that the ancients performed to bring about the bountiful harvest failed, because the essential sex weasels were spasmodically indifferent to the high priestess’s intricate manipulations of the revered and holy sex spatulas then that – most definitely – was the fault of the gods.

So, then the gods would have to pay. And, pay they did through the rituals that enacted the savage dismemberment and consumption of the gods in order to serve the buggers right for starting it all off in the first place.

These days, in supposedly more enlightened times, the ritual is enacted through the ritual where the naked high priestess (our village librarian) Miss Lesley Mufflapper is coated in virgin sex weasel oil by her handmaiden (and assistant librarian), Miss Margie Mingefinger. Then they engage in the ceremonial slicing and ritual eating of the Holy Pork Pie (here representing the body of the gods) on the High Altar, before we get down to the traditional all-village orgy and tea dance that rounds off the ceremony.

Friday, September 4, 2009

The Judicious Use Of The Watering Can

The watering can is – of course – an essential allotment-based perversion accessory, without which no horticulturally-inclined deviant should be without. It should be as essential as keeping a firm grasp on your dibber during the vital latter stages of the Beetroot Machinations, or any other similar fresh vegetable-related dalliance.

If your allotment-based perversions are, by way of example, taking place on a light or sandy soil, then it is essential to keep your cake-shop manageress well-lubricated through the judicious use of your watering can. This applies especially if she is dressed in the traditional t-shirt for such perversions as the Under-Gardner And Chiropodist, the Celery-Surprise, or even, if the perversion allotment is frosty, The Sweet-Pea and muffler Over-Mitttening.

However, on such cold and frosty mornings, it is best to be very careful about the use of the watering can, especially if your perversion partner, or partners – or, in cases such as the Dandelion And Burdock, your assistants – will not take kindly to a severe moistening in such temperatures. After all, unless you are that way inclined, you would not wish to have your dibber inserted where the sun doesn’t shine, especially on a North-facing allotment.

As for the use of a watering can with any early crop of spring onions, we’d best leave that for another day, especially if you are considering using them in the near vicinity of an assistant librarian, or two.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

The Heyday Of The Local Village Weekend Orgy

‘May the lug nuts on your fetish unicycle never grow rusty’. Many of you gathered here today must smile a small smile of recognition at the above phrase. How many times on entering your local village hall for the weekly Sunday afternoon village orgy have you heard those very words of familiar greeting as the attendants take your orgy cape?

In fact, since the late 1950s most village halls in England have had those very words inscribed over the door to their orgy room as a reminder of the great heyday of the local village weekend orgy. In those times not long after the privations of WWII and rationing, and before the swinging 60s when the perverted arts became an intrinsic part of the birthright of each and every freeborn Englishman stroke woman*.


This is of course why the village hall orgy has come to take such a central part in the daily lives of rural folk. Not for us has there been the alienation and isolation of the urban lifestyle, for we believe in coming together as often (and as stickily) as possible as our various schedules allow.

Not only that, it seems that it is the dream of most urban and suburban dwellers to escape to the country at some point in their lives. Obviously, those of us already here do our utmost to prevent such an occurrence, but despite our best efforts to keep them away, some do manage to evade the slowly crawling tractors, the veiled threats of unspecified violence and the ominous hints of darkly mysterious sexual shenanigans and move into a rural village.

When we finally get around to acknowledging their existence after the obligatory first decade or so after their arrival these people often do say that it is the simple pleasures of rural life such as the weekend village hall orgy that drew them to the country in the first place. Eventually, should they remain in the village long enough, they are made welcome there and –invariably – go on to be proudly upstanding upholders of the tradition.


*And who can say it is not the birthright of every Englishman to have the chance to stroke a woman at some point, or – hopefully – several points in his life?

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Little Frigging Women’s Royal Volunteer Perversion Services

The credit crunch has brought along with it a new sense of austerity, which even we here in Little Frigging have not let go by unnoticed. So, the ladies of the Little Frigging Women’s Royal Volunteer Perversion Services (WRVPS) have been using their last few meetings to discuss various ways off introducing more home-made perversions into the regular weekly village orgies in the Village Hall.

The WRVPS have a proud and noble history, set up over 40 years ago by Lady Henrietta Nobgobbler the daughter of the well-remembered Lady Georgina Kneetrembler, who herself did so much for the relief of rural workers and farm labourers in the inter-war years. Henrietta vowed to keep up her mother’s good works by doing all she could to keep the male members of rural villages proud and upstanding.

Consequently, Lady Nobgobbler, set up the WRVPS as a way to deliver the all-important perversions to those members of the community to old, frail, or otherwise indisposed to attend the village hall orgies. Lady Nobgobbler’s first Perversions On Wheels services were often little more than a couple of ladies in a beaten up old Ford Anglia carrying little more than a half-empty bottle of sex weasel oil and a second hand traffic warden’s cap, but to the perversion starved denizens of some of those villages it was a lifeline.

From those humble beginnings the WRVPS has gone from strength to strength to such a point they are now able to mount a fully mobile Orgy On Wheels, including fetish unicycles, chocolate-coated librarians and fresh warm custard, to any elderly or indisposed pervert or deviation within a ten-mile range.

This is, I’m sure you must agree, a very noble endeavour indeed, and I would – therefore – hope that you will agree to attend the next WRVPS Bring-And-Buy Fund-Raising Orgy where any donations you make will be received gratefully by the ladies on the tables.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Inter-Village Orgy test Match Tactics

The Intemperate Bridgenorth Shuttlecock Deviation is – as those of us with hand-tooled fetish racquets well know, quite tricky to perform directly into a head wind, even if the librarian is holding the weasel correctly. However, a trick I picked up whilst on tour with the Little Frigging Inter-Village orgy team, is to make sure the quantity surveyor is well behind the halfway line before buttering the scones.

I’m sure you will now be able to see why the tin of anchovies is then so vital, without me having to sound overly patronising with a superfluous explanation.

Now, then, I think we can move on and discuss more advanced tactics, without being too distracted by such mundane and straightforward tactical manoeuvres as that outlined above. The librarian will – of course – be very familiar with any First Folio And Cream Cake Underarm Application, almost as a matter of course. But it may be worth your while to consider how just a dab of weasel-spleen oil on the underside edge of the choirmaster.

This may leave the librarian less able to concentrate on the vicar’ surplice just long enough for you to make liberal use of her cataloguing system for your own ends, thus allowing your centre fondler a clear run at the chicken, thus surprising it while it is still quite intrigued by the antics of the librarian and choirmaster. This is especially useful as a surprised chicken – or two, if you are very lucky – is often just enough to win an Inter-Village Orgy league match.

This is especially significant if the two sides have been evenly matched during the earlier seven quarters and you are running short of cream cakes just as the umpire is blown in the bad light when confused with the groundsperson in charge of the floodlights.